Boys Don't Cry
by Sienna Swan
Summary: Christian tries to keep Satine's dream alive, with whatever cost to himself. I'm hoping this is something unique - please read and review, make me smile. It only takes a few keystrokes!
1. Protolouge

Christian waved his hand dismissally at the young girl, chapped fingers rubbing his temples as he awaited the entrance of the next one. In the belief that the Moulin Rouge would falter and fail without a new star, he held his head in his hands and cringed as they sung, as their shoes hit the floor, each thud hitting him like a beat of her heart, a slap of her hand across his cheek. His skull felt like it had been pryed open, picked apart with a headache - though, if his mind had really been so vulnerable, it would have become apparant that he wasn't holding auditions for someone to take Dear Satine's place, but rather for Satine herself. And though he knew well it was a Fool's Quest, and that no one could replace such a beauty, no one knew such a charisma nor could they breathe life into a part as she could. She played the oldest profession with a haughty appeal, an actoress playing her part like it had been made for her. And perhaps it had been, perhaps his angel hade been forced into such slavery if only so she could be saved in the end. Perhaps life was all a fucking joke, and her change at life had been nothing more than a cruel taunt made out by Fate.  
  
And what a Fool's Quest it was, for he went home at the end of the day and fell into slumber, the moon caressing his face like her pale boney fingers, running across the stubble, magnifying the pain. He'd toss and turn and think of the girls he'd looked at over the day, think of Zidler's words urging him to choose - they didn't have much time, the deed to the Moulin Rouge could just as easily be sold if he didn't find someone to fill the void Satine had created! He'd grind his teeth and toss, strangled by the bedsheets, awaking to find his limbs tangled in the cool, damp satin, and not the pallid embrace of her limbs. He'd awake, panting, head thrown up, tearing at himself. "Shit..." He'd cuss to himself, breaking down in tears again, pricking the back of his eyes so that they watered and twitched in pain. This night was different then the others, though. He'd lifted himself to get the usual flask of vodka, downing it in a few and knocking himself out till he'd wake up hungover again. This night, however, parinoid suspicision took over him and he skulked through the shadows, pacing, padding of his feet hollow and echoing through the empty room. He came across his mirror, lifting his hands over his face, running them down the cool exterior. He looked at himself, the sunken eyes that had once stared into Satine's, that once held so much joy, so many secrets better lft untold, secrets which, in the end, had them disposed of. Maybe she's still be alive if they hadn't lied. Maybe she would have been happy, been healthy, maybe his love could have saved her! Ah, but the lies a Fool tells him self when he's in denial, almost humerous in the manner which he spoke his thoughts. Love was what? A horimone, a passing phase? He should have left them at friends, never taken the step towards lovers, for what was that but what had ultimatley ruined her reputation, her thoughts, her life? She could have died a happy woman, perhaps. No doubt there were questions Satine needed answers to. He fumbed around, through gifts he'd been given, Satine's things, trying to find what still held some of her life, her essence upon it. No one could play her like she could, she could act like the best of them, she deserved a chance at life! A life she had stolen from her! He kicked the dresser, crying out in pain as he clutched his foot, curling the toes until they cracked and he thought they were going to break, on the floor, cradelling himself... he couldn't take it anymore, she was dead, the Moulin Rouge was dying, it was over! Over, his life had been swept up and thrown to the tide, he could feel it ebb and flow, he could feel it twisted and knoting and - he slammed his head against the dresser, her powder shaking and erupting in tiny motes of pale dust. It clung to his features, the floor, his clothing, as if he'd rolled in flour, covering himself, a phantom, a ghost. He stood to his feet, shaking, composing himself from the thoughts which had taunted him. He tried to blank out his mind, break it down, looking at himself in the mirror. His skin was perfect, covered by the blank part - blotchy in parts mind you, but he could see the difference. He stroked the sponge over his face, covering his face, until it was cold and pale, a porcelin complexion so frail. His cheekbones were jaunty and lithe, jutting out, he did have a distinct female quality to him...  
  
Satine. He would keep Satine's dream alive, no matter what the cost. No matter if he had to become her.  
  
He wouldn't let her die.  
  
.:.  
  
He took the razor in his hand and drew it across the skin of his face, the stubble falling, black tiny hairs caught in the thick creamy foam. Once he'd finished, he splashed cool water over the flesh, yielding the the icy jets which ran over the cuts and lacerations - his hand had continued to shake, all through his shaving. He looked up at his face in the mirror, and picked up one of the brushes - God, it smelt like her - placing it in the thick creamy concealer that Satine had so often dowsed her features in, covering all cracks and creases which resided upon her linaments. She'd been weary, and he'd only ever seen it once the powder had been ridden from such cat-like features, she'd always been able to cover it up with the magic of makeup. He took the khol liner, pulling his sockets downwards so the pink inside of his eye was exposed, running the black in a thin line across the curve. He took her mascara brush as well and held it vertically, trying to remember how she'd applied it (oh God, don't say she was fading already) before he remembered, put it horizontally, and blinked upon the end. His eyelashes had been blond, and they'd thickened considerably once he applied the ebony gunk. Rose circles had been placed, climbing his cheekbones, stiff and yet considerably soft under the folds and the shadows the makup gave him. Now for the hair... he looked around her room, a wig, anything? He fluffed the little he had, and took out a pair of scissors, cutting the ends until it clung to his scalp limply. He cryed out - God what was he doing, had he gone mad? Probably. Satine, he had to think of Satine, keep her alive, keep her breathing, keep her dream alive if he couldn't keep her there! She needed him, she needed the Moulin Rouge, it was her home, it couldn't be cast aside! All those whores and tarts who came by were nothing, NOTHING, they couldn't play her! And what made him think he could? The fact that he knew her inside in out; mentally and physicly? The fact he loved her and would do anything, no matter what the cost, to keep her alive? God knows what he was thinking, God knows anything anymore, as he drew the lines across his face, made himself beautiful, tears streaming down his face and causing the putty-like concealer to run down his face, causing a need to reappy, black racoon's eyes gathering under his lashes. He looked at himself and stared, for how long no one knows, breaking down every few moments, mouthing three simple words.  
  
"You are beautiful." 


	2. A Foolish Arrangement

His lips mouthed the words to a song he'd long ago memorized, not even aware of the voice that flowed forth like liquid honey.  
  
It had taken Zidler some convincing. Christian had begged, pleaded, gone down on his hands and knees - he'd threatened Zidler, himself, the Moulin Rouge, and lastly... Satine's dream. That was what finally won his over, what glazed Zidler's eyes with a glassy layer of tears, which tore him apart from the inside. Satine's dream - was that not what was important here? Was that not what inside their hearts, they all clung to with a raging fire, which they'd fiendishly protect at any cost? Probably. He gave Christian to go out and dance, nothing less, nothing more.  
  
And months had passed. Now he sat 'pon Her trapeeze, high above the hooting men and whorish girls, swinging softly as he sung. Some would have said he was an angel right then, high above it all. He'd always had a slightly feminine look about him, especially after he'd lost weight, after her death. Gaunt cheekbones were highlighted with a soft swipe of blush stolen from the Diamond Dogs, lips plastered with thick red blood, like the liquid that painted Satine's lips after she coughed. Stop that, he told himself, chidingly, cringing as he threw his head back,voice silencing the room. Stop that.  
  
.:.  
  
After the show, he stumbled through the change rooms, ignoring the daggar glares shot from the other girls. The hisses and whispers broke on his ears as he pretended not to hear them, pretended to not see the hateful looks they shot. He'd conditioned himself to think it was because he was more beautiful than such, that he was more famous, that he was more pure. He'd told himself they were dirty, dirty girls. He would do nothing for money.  
  
Which, in the long run, was a good thing, considering the fact he was male, and most patrons were not looking for such.  
  
This mascarade had not only saved the Moulin Rouge, but turned it against it's self, causing a silent war to erupt, spraks to crack as hands brushed and eyes met. He gave a small huff and continued up back to his chamber, her champer, the chamber... he lay on the bed, face down upon the sheets, sobbing into the satin pillow. Makeup ran and stained, fingernails tore vainly at the fabric, muffled sobs broke out through the empty walls, echoing and fading out. He hated himself, he hated the damn Moulin Rouge, he hated the Diamond Dogs... He looked up, lower lip quaking, staring at the picture of her. Satine. It didn't matter it was right beside his bedside, no one came there anyways. He stroked the glass, so frail, so fragile... grasping the picture in his hands, he clutched it tightly to his chest, and fell asleep holding it, still sniffling like a small child, face stained with tears and makeup he'd put to hide his blemishes, hide his broken heart, become her.  
  
| A/N: I don't usually write this... I just want to say I'm sorry that this chapter seems so hokey, it will get better (or so I'm hoping). I wasn't originally planning on doing this, so I put the storyline together the night before. Something IS developing, and more explinations will come with the next chapter. I just wanted to write something before school started, so I could try and hook you guys. ;) Also - please review with constructive critisim, I am so far the largest critic of my work, and would love to hear what someone else thought I could improve on. It's the only way I'll get better.  
  
Ciao! | 


	3. Just Say Yes

Love is a powerful demon, one that can rip and take hold of you, before you pay heed to how late it's become. It tears at you, eating away at your heart, devouring the very flesh to which you pay so careful attention.  
  
To what cost? To feed the demon of love again?  
  
The lights move as quickly as the action at the Moulin Rouge, the tapping of feet and creaking of beds like a macrabre tap dance that echos out through the loneliness behind it all. The mask that everyone wear but never dare take off.   
  
"Just one dance with the infamous Christine?" were words spoken in good interest, in the infatiouation of a young boy, no hidden meaning behind them.  
  
And yet they filled Christian with an indescribable wave of dread. He cringed inwardly, bottom jaw shaking as eyes went wide as blank, like the marble eyes of a stuffed animal, forever frozen in the expression of prey, turning to face the muzzle of the gun. Confusion forever plastered into their skulls.   
  
"A... a dance?" He was a singer, a star, a replacement Satine, a hidden entity, a lie, if we must go to such extremes. And those words shattered his confidence.  
  
Just to get it straight (no pun intended), the dress was in no way a sexual thing.  
  
He looked at the boy, probably much as Satine must had looked at him in time (though Satine had had higher expectations, no doubt). A clean boy, shiney faced and bright eyed like a fox kit, a deer-in-headlights, a brand new penny.  
  
"A-a dance?" Words were repeated, mind fuzzed over with the haze of denyal, shaking in the stilletos he wore out of fear of being discovered.  
  
"Yes, is it too much to ask?" Oh, how he was in himself like the young Christian, naive look plastered over his face, the suit doing nothing to hide it. It was an almost alluring quality, this infantilism, causing Christian's mind to waver.  
  
"No, I mean.. yes, I mean... oh God." He groped at his temples, rubbing his fingers in the small dips of his forehead, kneading the carefully made-up skin. He cringed inwardly, the smile upon the man's face much too bright, blinding him almost to such an effect that he felt caged, as if he needed to run. Now. But he wouldn't let himself.  
  
"I'm sorry, I've confused you..." The man extended his hand in a gesture of greeting, Christian squeezing the drink till he thought the crystal might shatter and bloody his hand, placing the goblet upon a table near by. He could hear the music in the background, thudding and thumping in a primal rhythm, the shrieks and squeals of pleasure erupting behind him like vocanos. Christian took his hand - God, was his hand too large? Would he figure it out? - before drawing back the carefully shaved fist back, wrapping the pams and entwining the fingers, oh so nervous. "...I'm Bernard."  
  
He didn't seem like a Bernard to Christian, Bernards resembled the dog so named after, large and robust, shaggy, like his picture of a logger. He could see them in work boots and with hairy arms, not this skinny little boy before him, with eyes that had seen nothing, hair upon his wiry arms pale and fine, dotting them with peach fuzz. He flushed slightly as he answered, not able to keep himself, embarassed by his presumptious manner.   
  
"I'm Christie-Christine." He rubbed his hands across his face, eyes adopting the hollow glassy look of a stuffed animal, staring at the muzzle of the gun, knowing thier last moments loomed overhead. Voice was hushed and cracked, lower than he had intented, eyes still looking past Bernard. "Christine." He crossed all fingers but his two index, holding them up to his mouth, face twisted into a visage of ponder. "Yes. Yes, you can have one dance."  
  
.:.  
  
And that is ultimatly where it began. With the one dance, whatever you wish to call it. A tango, a waltz, it didn't matter. It was that dance which started it, and perhaps it would be that dance that ended it.   
  
.:.  
  
Christien stared at the pearly eyes, ones which stared out in vain. He sat, legs as crossed as he could manage in such a dress and with such equptment, still sitting with hands folded into steeples, long fingers drawn to his rouge lips as he watched the boy. He smoked a clove, waving it between his fingers, looking at Christian every once in a while.   
  
"That wasn't your first time dancing."  
  
Christian was taken aback - of course it hadn't been! Until he remembered Zidler's prodding and preformances, turing Christian into a foriegn star, sent from England, never having danced before, terribly shy of men and their misuse. Hmph. He stroked the jet black hair that had taken so long to grow in, wigs having covered the stubs, girls fingers weaving horse hair into the locks as they grew out. His scalp ached as he thought of it, the tugging and the pulling.  
  
"No." He didn't make eye contact, didn't want to stare into those eyes, didn't want his glass gaze to give away the secret he was hiding. He'd seen that look before, but the look was mimiced only by the mirror. It was a look of unbridled infatuation, a look that was spun with hope, so easy to shatter. Maternal instincts caused him to want to stroke the boy's hair, tell him it would be alright. Be his Satine.  
  
No. Satine was his, and that was that. There was no time for attraction, no matter how non sexual it may be. He folded his hands in his lap, tounge running over his lips quickly, mouth dry, causing him to choke. His eyes felt glazed, the makeup stining them constantly, he swallowed back his words and gave a small cough. Bernard sat, watching him, ever intruged by this, well, creature he thought woman, swathed in black silk, pouting and tugging. He played at Bernards heartstrings like they were those of a harp, and Christians fingers were laced with acid. Though they strumed such beautiful music, his heart was withering away with those looks he was shot, Christians mixed emotions and his own confusion.  
  
Christian shuddered under the posessive gaze that was cast upon him, lingering like a black shadow, a dark halo over his own head.  
  
A noose.  
  
"Cha-cha-champagne?" Christian shook as he picked up the bottle, nails clicking upon the glass like a death march. The same words Satine had spoke to him so long ago, though he'd refused it. He could use it now, at least to numb his brain for a while. He gave a weak chuckle, reminiscent of a dying animal, choked and strained. Bernard nodded, obsessive gaze still lingering over Christian, who put on a smile, flashing the bright white teeth. White and bright like the tips of lit birthday candles, blinding. Christian took the glass, closing his eyes as he tried to steady his shaky hand, pouring the champange, some of it clinging around the rim where he'd spilt it. He handed it over to Bernard, who sipped, nonchalantly. Christian himself downed the drink in one long gulp, gasping for air like a victem of the ocean when he came back up for air.  
  
|A/N: I want to thank everyone who reviewed, and also give a special thanks to The Great Kara. You have inspired me and I have found your work fresh, creative, some of the best out there. I am honored by your reviews. I'm just a shy little girlie. :)  
  
And to the others - thank you for your support and critism, I know some of you personally and will thank you in person if the need be, to the others - without you, I would not be here. Thank you. | 


	4. Pictures Of You

When you are not paying attention to the amount you are drinking, and perhaps are craving the drown yourself in the liquor that you down so religiously, one glass can easily become three. Which becomes a bottle. Which becomes too little.  
  
Though drunkenly, Christian slunk down into his chair, like liquid, passive against Bernard swirling the drink around in his cup. Absinthe. He wanted Absinthe, he wanted the Green Faerie to cradle his head in her hands and tell him it would be all right, stroke his hair and hush him like a mother, smother him in kisses. He wanted Satine to comfort him, talk to him, like he had for her. What had she given back to him? - nothing save for her love? She never comforted him in his life, she just took and took and took and bathed in his love till there was nothing left. A love that would keep her forever young, a dead child's doll on the shelf, not taken down out of sentiment.   
  
"Absinthe." Christian hadn't meant to speak the word, but his mind was hazy and muddled, fog stealing his thoughts like a pick pocket. He looked over at the boy who could have been called the old Christian's kindred if someone wanted to go so far. Bernard looked up, groggy and lethargic, furrowing his brow as if he was thinking. Christian's brows were plucked and thin, well rounded over his face. Bernard's were thick and angular.   
  
"...what?" Bernard paused, singular eyebrow working it's way up his face inquisitively, blinking a few times as he ran his tongue over those chapped lips, pushing blonde tendrils of hair away from his eyes. Christian blinked, vocals hushed, as if he was trying to cover them, flushed anieth his makeup.  
  
"Nothing.. just, a whim... I was wondering if you wanted some Absinthe..." Bernard, who looked somewhat agitated, kneaded the flesh of his temples between his fingers and nodded, dismissively, as if Christian was a scullery maid. Getting huffy over the manner in which he was addressed, Christian slid to the ice box and groped anieth the cubes, hunting for his stash, before pulling the liquor from the bottom. He held up the green bottle, sauntered over and poured Bernard a glass. He then sunk back into his chair, holding up his own glass.  
  
"Cheers."  
  
.:.  
  
There was no green faery. There was no singing of Truth, Beauty, Freedom nor least of all Love. Just a Bernard whispering in a barely audible voice about his past, about his childhood. Jobs as a pimp, a shoeshine boy, a whore, a pick pocket. Stories of being beaten on the streets of Paris, stories of being beaten in his own house.  
  
Christian was captivated.  
  
Was this what Satine's childhood had been like? Was this the sole thing she'd refuse to speak of, her jobs, her profession, before Christian. For one second, Christian lost his head, blurring the lines between himself, Satine, and Bernard. He opened his hands as if he was reaching for something, crying out, holding his breath within his throat. Bernard jumped up, knocking his chair to the ground with a clatter, Christian coming back down to earth, though something above him was lost, floating away. He looked at Bernard like a lost child, whimpering, a cowering down cringing in the corner. Being beaten by it's master.  
  
"I understand." He said, dropping his arms to his sides, shoulders slumping under the force of the drink being placed upon them. Bernard furrowed his brow again, biting his bottom lip, chewing on it thoughtfully. He brushed the golden strands of hair from his eyes, like spun glass, gossamer as it hung like a halo over his face.   
  
"Understand what?"  
  
"Her." Bernard didn't question that, Christian seemed to relax after he spoke, as if he'd awakened from a dream. He untangled his legs from being wrapped around themselves, letting his arms drop to the side again, like a sacrificial victim after being killed, finally relaxing. Christian held up the glass again and poured himself another, lifting it in a toast before he downed it. Had Bernard noticed the bobbing of his Adam's Apple - which he didn't - it was but a guess to what he would have done. Christian fondled the tips of his hair, coming down past his shoulders, hanging over a hidden synthetic bust Zidler and Chocolat had invented with left over padding and a bustier. The cinnamon scent of the Elephant was heavy in the air, like a curtain drawn over them, he shut his eyes and asked why he chose her room.  
  
When he opened them again they were glasses of water, pools, rivers, wavering with ocean water, ready to spill over the rim.  
  
Bernard, however, was distracted.  
  
He pointed to the picture of Satine upon his bedside table, gesturing lazily with his hand.  
  
"Who's she?" Christian gave a small yelp, trying to jump up and slam it against the table but faltering and falling back down into his chair.   
  
"...my friend. A good, good friend of me. She died two years ago." Bernard looked at him, Christians' glassy eyes still flirting on the edge of tears, wavering back and forth.   
  
"I'm sorry." Christian had now an excuse to cry, burying his head in his hands and sobbing into them, body convulsing as he gasped, drowning in his tears. Bernard's face melted and he slunk over, brushing Christian's cheekbone lightly.  
  
"Shhh... it's all right, you'll be okay. Just relax, there's nothing you can do now." Christian clung to Bernard's body like a child to his mother, long nails breaking the flesh and causing crescent moons of pink to appear on his shoulders. He felt Bernard's lips press against his forehead and Bernard draw away, pouring Christian another glass of Absinthe. "Here, take this, and breathe."  
  
Christian sipped it submissively.  
  
.:.  
  
Morning came when the early sun hit his face at such an angle, the sky flamingo pink, Christian's body stiffening. He could feel Bernard's arms around his waist, one leg wrapped around him.  
  
He groped at the sheets, thankful to find he was wearing the same clothing he was the night before.  
  
His head had a pounding headache and the night was a blur, he couldn't remember what he'd done, what had happened - Oh God, had Bernard found out?  
  
If he had, why was he still here?  
  
Christian slid from the embrace, looking at his runny makeup in the mirror, Bernard stirring in the bed behind him. He opened his eyes, smiling serenely, before coming up behind Christian and wrapping his arms around him, kissing his neck.  
  
"Good morning, my Diamond." 


End file.
